


A Flood In Our Hearts

by Nanoochka



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bossy Will, Bottom Will, First Kiss, Hannibal POV, M/M, Murder Husbands, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Power Bottom Will Graham, Relationship Discussions, Rimming, Shaving, Straight Razors, Top Hannibal, We're on a boat, cannibals in love, questionable shaving implements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9088003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: As Will and Hannibal sail towards a new life on the other side of the world, Will decides a change in appearance might be in order along with some renegotiation of their relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S A HOLIDAY MIRACLE, HARRY POTTER. Seriously guys, shit, it's been over two years since I managed to actually finish writing something, and not only that, something I actually think I did right by. What started as an attempt to exorcise my need for marathon Hannigram porn turned into over 15k of... something, but I'm very happy with it and hope you are too. Incidentally this doesn't even beat my wordcount record for undiluted smut (okay, a little diluted since they talk and stuff), so there's that. With any luck this will be part of a series because there are some kinky promises the boys don't quite deliver on in this one. You'll know what I mean when you see it.
> 
> Some quick thanks: my lovely as ever betas [Chai](http://dirtydirtychai.tumblr.com) and [R.C.](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com), both of whom have happily accompanied me on my descent into madness since s01e01 of Hannibal first aired. Especially R.C., who didn't think I was crazy when I suggested I might have to actually board a plane so we could watch the series finale together last summer, and who didn't bat an eyelash at my random late-evening texts thinking aloud about whether or not Will is circumcised. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Finally this is dedicated to Ess, cofounder of my Hannigram support group and who still wanted to be friends despite ten days in a car with me and my frequent, terrible, and ill-timed Hannibal references across the contiguous United States, and who didn't kick me out of the moving vehicle on a Vegas freeway when I realized "I Can't Decide" by the Scissor Sisters might be the most perfect Hannigram anthem ever recorded, then proceeded to play it on repeat more times than we crossed the Arizona border. I'd hide a body with you anytime, boo, and the lifetime supply of Fuzzy Peaches is on me.

> I was put together wrong
> 
> Still I was made for you
> 
> When our stitches come undone
> 
> We come together like glue
> 
> \- “Do You,” Carina Round

 

The clatter of rain against the hull of their boat had faded to the dull roar of a thousand tiny stones upon metal when Hannibal noticed he could no longer hear the snick of scissors from the head, even above the softly playing Dvořák on the stereo. Unlike the deafening silence of his prison cell, the constant burr of sound was relatively easy to block out, even reassuring in its way, and Hannibal, unperturbed, didn’t look up from his book until the lavatory door clicked open and flooded the cabin with the scent of shower steam and soap. 

Will he expected, of course, but the creature silhouetted in the doorway was an unfamiliar thing of hard angles and a promise of violence that crackled on the air like electricity. Clutched in his hand weren’t scissors but a straight razor, a detail that only added to his air of menace. For a moment Hannibal could imagine Will possessed of great and terrible wings that blazed with unholy fire, and the picture stole his breath away. Will once told him he used to see Hannibal as a wendigo with skin and antlers as black as pitch, eyes like bottomless pools, and if Hannibal was his demon, there was no doubt Will was his angel of death. He would never be predictable or safe, not to Hannibal or anyone else, and Hannibal couldn’t truthfully say he didn’t enjoy the danger and thrill of it.

He indulged the image a moment before allowing it to fade, leaving behind a man who was flesh and blood but no less resplendent. Now that Hannibal was permitted to look his fill, he found he rarely wanted to do anything else, furiously coveting what he saw every day, every minute. 

More and more often, Will was inclined to indulge him this--basked in it, even. He went shirtless more often since they’d reached warmer waters, or stayed in swim trunks and unbuttoned loose shirts as though finally at peace with the idea of being worshipped. At peace with being  _ seen _ . If the force of Hannibal’s love had worn him down to his least ambiguous self like a diamond formed beneath the unbearable weight of a mountain, it was worth having yearned from afar for so long. He was magnificent to behold, and Hannibal, not for the first time, was rendered temporarily speechless at his beauty.

Belatedly he remembered to shut his mouth. Will was smirking at him fondly and made a poor attempt to hide it by sipping the Scotch clutched in his other hand, which meant Hannibal had been caught staring again. Hannibal lifted his eyebrows, smiling unapologetically, and closed his book. He set it on the table and waited. Had he known a haircut was all it would take to reveal the true Will to the world, he would have passed him the scissors much sooner. 

This surprise was nevertheless a pleasant one, even if Hannibal knew Will was aware of the effect he had. He rather enjoyed the tease, though the bob of Will’s Adam’s apple around a swallow somewhat destroyed the picture of self-assured seducer. It was honestly dishonest; they both knew that wasn’t who Will was at the core. He might know how to flirt his way to a desired outcome, how to leverage his physical proximity, long eyelashes, and the sensuous twist of his mouth, but to Hannibal, the truth was as transparent and fragile as spun sugar--Will neither believed nor entirely understood the extent to which Hannibal longed for him. Mind, body, soul. If he didn’t enjoy the show so much, he would almost tell him he needn’t work so hard for Hannibal’s attention.

It always brought a smile to Hannibal’s face to see Will struggle to reconcile the conflicting parts of himself, but this was not merely him projecting his desires--Will saw it too, this new man in the mirror, or perhaps it was more accurate to say he saw what had lurked beneath the surface all along. Saw that he and Hannibal were truly two haves of a whole, outwardly as well as in.

“I thought it would help to be less recognizable,” Will offered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was shorter but still long enough to grip with one’s fingers, Hannibal estimated, and still threatened to curl. 

Will pulled off the towel he’d draped around his shoulders to catch the clippings, dislodging them over the floor in the process. Hannibal was less interested in the mess than the golden expanse of Will’s bare chest. He looked much broader without anything to distract from his strong shoulders and lean torso. 

Since the first time Hannibal laid eyes on him, Will had been peeling back his self-made defenses one by one: ugly glasses, untidy clothes, wild hair. Moral certainty. This haircut was practical but not severe, though Hannibal took a moment to mourn the carelessly tousled curls. This was not worse--precisely the opposite, as it framed Will’s handsome face to devastating effect. It was merely different and unexpected. Hannibal didn’t object to surprises when the result afforded him an opportunity to look Will over with naked interest disguised as curiosity, but even the brutally efficient machine of his mind didn’t immediately know what to make of this.

“I am almost certain Will Graham hasn’t yet achieved notoriety in the Azores,” he pointed out. “It’s quite remote, and I don’t anticipate either of us will be recognized.”

They’d made landfall in the tiny port of Horta several hours ago and would continue south in a couple days’ time, after they’d had a chance to restock and refuel after a difficult crossing through the Azores High. Their course was tentatively set for Morocco, one of the few places without an extradition treaty with the US  _ or _ Italy. Hannibal had visited before but never hunted there, preserving the purity of the experience, but more importantly, it was far enough away from their last known whereabouts to leave Uncle Jack spinning in the wind awhile. 

Their injuries from the fall waylaid them far longer than Hannibal would have preferred, and the haul across the Atlantic was a long one. But Hannibal had unflagging faith in Will’s abilities to captain their ship, and the sailing yacht he’d purchased many years ago was so large and sophisticated that Will, by his own admission, could sail it in his sleep, if not live upon it comfortably for the rest of his days. He’d dropped no shortage of hints to that effect already, but Hannibal, though pleased with the size and quality of the galley, was simply not made for a life at sea. 

Will drained the rest of his Scotch and stalked forward. “Maybe I just wanted to get a reaction out of you,” he suggested. “From the look on your face when I walked out here, I’d say it worked.”

Even on a boat as spacious as this, he looked not unlike a wild animal pacing and testing the limits of its cage. Restless, but Hannibal couldn’t say for certain it was freedom he craved. He’d found it at sea in a way Hannibal might never understand, and yet even vast oceans seemed unable to contain him. The more time they lived in close quarters, the more space Will seemed to take up. If Hannibal were to guess, he’d say Will was letting himself fully inhabit a place for the first time in his life, rather than curling into himself like a pillbug, small and repressed. But how long until he felt the limits of the deceptively infinite world around them?

Will put his empty glass down on the table next to Hannibal’s abandoned book, then the straight razor. Hannibal trusted he would explain its purpose in due course and felt his eyes crinkle with bemused warmth. It had become something of a default expression around Will, though he suspected Will much preferred when he managed to elicit a moue of irritation. 

“The look on my face was not for lack of recognition,” he said. “You merely caught me off guard. Perhaps it is your own reflection you find unrecognizable, and you are simply testing if you are still the same person.”

“For once, Hannibal, I’m not using you or anyone else as an echo chamber for my inner self. I just wanted to see how I’d look with a haircut and a shave.” Will was exasperated but fond, and Hannibal caught the smile he tried to hide behind a roll of his eyes. 

Perhaps despite himself, Will was losing his sharp edges. Nothing would ever dull his prickly sense of humor and acerbic wit, his low threshold for nonsense and stupidity; that was a given and among nothing Hannibal could fathom wanting to change. But his roughness, his combativeness, ever such transparent defense mechanisms to Hannibal’s eyes, emerged more and more frequently for sport only, an unsubtle ploy to rile Hannibal up for amusement’s sake. 

“The people we surround ourselves with are echo chambers of our inner selves whether we like it or not,” said Hannibal. “Even if we do not like the person they reflect back at us.” 

It only took another couple steps for Will to come within touching distance, and Hannibal momentarily indulged the thought of reaching out to curl his fingers around the belt loops of Will’s already low-slung jeans. It would be nothing to tug him closer, perhaps even close enough to stand between Hannibal’s knees. They’d come to accept that personal space was a luxury not easily afforded to them for the time being, but this tentative intimacy was different. It was unnecessary, and intimacy for its own sake was nothing if not a declaration. Of what, precisely, Will still seemed undecided. But as with most things, Hannibal could be patient. 

“For once I’m fine with the person I see reflected back at me,” Will said, solemn in a way Hannibal wouldn’t dream of teasing him about. “Are you?”

“I have never struggled with self-acceptance, or rather the lack of it,” Hannibal answered. “I am as I am.”

“And terribly self-congratulating about it too.” Will chewed his bottom lip a moment, then added, “I’m not asking how well you like the person you see in the mirror. I know you do. I’m asking what you make of the person in front of you right now.” A muscle ticced in his cheek. “Scars and all.”

Hannibal flattened his lips into a poor approximation of a smile. At first he was unsure, for a change, how to respond, not knowing if this was a clumsy request for comfort or something else. It was as unlike Will to ask as it was for him to be anything but direct. “I must ask how much honesty you would value in response to that question, Will, or if you are merely fishing for compliments.”

With a thoughtful tilt to his head, Will stepped closer until he was standing between Hannibal’s knees, unwittingly mirroring Hannibal’s brief flight of fancy from a moment ago. “Maybe I want both. I’ve never known you to be stingy with either.”

“I would never deprive you of my honesty unless you asked it of me,” Hannibal said without hesitation. “And even then I am not often inclined to withhold the truth because it is inconvenient. But I am not prone to wanton flattery. If it seems otherwise, it’s because you’re the rare subject with whom I am inclined to be generous.”

“Bit  _ rude  _ of me to ask, though. Wouldn’t you say, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal quirked another smile, letting Will see he was amenable to this game if that’s what they were playing at. He hadn’t been  _ Dr. Lecter _ for some time now. Its deliberate use was a cunning reminder of how well he had come to know the sound of his name upon Will’s tongue, the particular warmth that resonated in its vowels. With a dismissive wave of his hand and a slight crinkling of his eyes, he said, “Hardly punishable by death given I long ago laid to rest any expectations of decorum from you, Will. Your rough edges are a source of your charm.” 

Will twitched with the suggestion of a surprised laugh. “Might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” he said. 

“I am certain that is not true. And if it is, it’s only because I fear my poetry might embarrass you.” Hannibal inclined his head. “Tell me, Will: are you feeling insecure in your beauty?”

Will didn’t answer. The straight razor, which until now neither of them had seen fit to acknowledge, glinted in the low light of Hannibal’s reading lamp as Will reached for it again and flicked it open. After a pause he flipped it around and offered it to Hannibal handle first. 

Hannibal accepted it unquestioningly, still awaiting his response, but Will said, “As much as it thrills me that you don’t have anything as plebian as a disposable razor on hand, I’m going to need your help with the next part.”

“It would be my pleasure to show you how,” Hannibal said in a neutral voice. He had absolutely no intention of doing so, but one must always offer.

Will’s smile was shrewd. He didn’t buy a word of it, not that Hannibal expected him to. “And deprive you of the chance to hold a razor to my throat? I’d rather you just do it.”

Despite the outwardly scathing assessment of Hannibal’s character, Will extended his hand to help him up; Hannibal’s torso, still relatively early in the healing stages for a gunshot wound, occasionally gave an unpleasant twinge if he moved too unthinkingly, though he was very much on the mend. Not only was he not too proud to accept help, he rather delighted in how easily Will offered it. That he was inclined to show mercy seemed as sure a sign as any that they had regained solid footing with one another.

Face-to-face with him, Hannibal gently laid a hand upon Will’s neck, thumb brushing his suprasternal notch. There was no flinch, no turning away even despite the subtle flare of Will’s nostrils and the way he parted his lips. He lifted his eyes to meet Hannibal’s, calm, and Hannibal felt the entirety of his being soften further like ice calving into the ocean. He was certain Will could see it too.

“I can say with complete sincerity I have never wished to see harm upon your throat,” Hannibal murmured.

Will met him with a flat stare. “Just come on. You can go back to reading pretentious poetry after we’re done. I’ve got everything set up in the head.” Unhurriedly he turned, and Hannibal, always a foregone conclusion where Will Graham was concerned, followed him aft. 

In the doorway he stopped. Just because their current home was afloat didn’t mean Hannibal was less meticulous about how he kept house. He frowned at the sight of scattered hair clippings around the sink and countertop and felt an aborted twitch in his fingers. 

He didn’t miss Will’s eye roll, but nor did Will mean him to. “You don’t have to make that face. I have every intention of cleaning up afterward,” he said patiently.

“Not all of us have had to resign ourselves to the presence of animal hair on every piece of furniture and article of clothing.” 

“We’ll see how long you keep singing that tune once we find a place to live. You’ll become inured to it.” Hannibal opened his mouth to reply but Will cut him off. “Where do you want me?”

Either marriage had made Will crass or time in prison had made Hannibal entirely too susceptible to innuendo. Maybe both. He sniffed and gestured at the counter, which was the most ideal surface. The facilities were sufficiently spacious, but he had no particular desire to stoop anywhere. “The counter, if you please.”

Will hopped up without protest, only his face betraying the strain to his injured shoulder. “I don’t actually think I’ve ever gotten a straight shave before,” he said conversationally as Hannibal set the razor down next to the sink. He’d honed it this morning; its sharpness should suffice. Will, who had clearly given this some forethought, had already dug out the soap and towels.

“You were not so concerned with your appearance before,” Hannibal said reasonably as he began to run hot water. Or he wasn’t, at least, until he saw fit to fashion himself into a lure, clothing and hair taking on a degree of sophistication in order to draw Hannibal in. Like Narcissus toward his own reflection, the clever boy. He knew Hannibal so well. In retrospect Hannibal allowed himself to be blinded by love, but he also couldn’t help but note Will never quite recovered his propensity for flannel and old fishing vests after that.

“Never faked my own death before,” Will countered. Of course there was also that. Hannibal was tempted to tell him being a wanted fugitive wasn’t everything it was made out to be.

While the sink filled, Hannibal retrieved his shaving kit from the cupboard. There was a sudden palpable intensity to Will’s gaze when Hannibal set the leather strop down next to him.  

“What is that,” Will bit out, eyebrows crawling up his forehead.

“It is a strop.” Hannibal picked it up again and turned it over for Will look his fill. “Leather on one side, canvas on the other. Surely you have set foot inside a barbershop before, if not the chair itself.” Or perhaps not. From what Hannibal knew of Will’s childhood, Beau Graham was more likely to have taught his son to shave using cheap dollar-store razors. All things being equal, maybe Hannibal understood why Will preferred his beard.

“Why is it shaped like this?” Will held out his hand and Hannibal gave it to him, their fingers brushing as he laid the rounded handle of the strop against his palm. Will weighed it in his hand and frowned. Mysteriously a blush had begun to rise in his cheeks. “I thought it was supposed to be a strap. This looks like a fetish device.”

“I prefer the paddle for travel.” Hannibal, taking it back, tested the strop against his hand once, a firm slap that cracked, overloud, in the small room. Will jumped but tried to hide it, and now there was no mistaking his flush.

As if guilty, he went even redder when he caught Hannibal noticing. “Hell,” he said and ducked his head. “It’s very, um. Suggestive.”

Hannibal kept his face an expressionless mask and his voice perfectly even. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

Very often Will used to hide behind his hair when embarrassed, Hannibal remembered, and he wondered if Will missed it now as he risked meeting Hannibal’s gaze. Unable to peer up at him from beneath a curtain of curls, Will’s face, naked, looked altogether sheepish. Hannibal could scarcely stand it. This wasn’t an act, nor the earlier glimpse of Hannibal’s avenging angel. It was simply Will in all his abundant contradictions, and Hannibal was once again forced to consider how utterly, helplessly in love he was. His desire to kiss him grew stronger by the day. He was merely waiting for the word.

“You’re an ass,” Will informed him without heat. “Does the rest of the world know your sense of humour is this egregious, or do they still think of you as a consummate sophisticate?”

Hannibal pressed his lips together but knew his eyes must betray a twinkle. “I am curious to know why you feel it is appropriate to hurl insults at someone who is about to place a razor against your skin.”

“I’ve never been accused of making good choices,” Will answered. “I’m  _ more  _ curious about your odd choice of bondage gear.”

“For that you need only ask, and I would be happy to demonstrate.”

“Then maybe I ought to be more careful of how I run my mouth.”

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t, and we can see where that takes us.”

As planned, that turned Will red to the tips of his ears, the flush travelling down his neck and chest the way blood bloomed in water. Even with his tongue loosened by quick banter and good Scotch, he knew when to bail out, but he’d been getting bolder recently. How different their relationship might have been if Will had proven himself so willing to be flirted with sooner, though Hannibal remained protective of the sincere, intimate nature of their early friendship. And there was still time, Hannibal reminded himself. They had all the time in the world to make up for what could have been, and he could see their future selves beginning to take shape a little more each day, with every look that passed between them.

“Perhaps you will regret not having a beard to hide behind when you blush,” said Hannibal, unable to resist a gentle ribbing.

Will cut him a droll look, eyes narrowed. “Or you could refrain from trying so hard to make me blush in the first place.”

“What an utterly unappetizing idea,” said Hannibal and was once again met with Will’s unimpressed stare. “You may instead hide behind a towel, in a moment. We must soften the hair.”

Hannibal set the strop aside, retrieved his shaving oil, and gathered some on his fingers, holding his hands out as a warning he was about to touch Will’s face. It smelled of primrose and sweet almond, very pleasant even to Hannibal’s sensitive nose. He smoothed the oil over Will’s bristly cheeks, jaw, and throat with firm strokes, making sure to cover all of his beard, and he felt as much as heard Will’s deep sigh. 

Languidly Will blinked, and then his eyes fluttered shut as he turned his face more fully into Hannibal’s hands, responsive to the touch. Hannibal was captivated, caught by the plush curve of Will’s bottom lip, but resisted the urge to smooth his thumb over it. When he removed his hands, Will frowned a little as if in disappointment but didn’t open his eyes.

The water in the basin was beginning to steam. Satisfied by the temperature, Hannibal next submerged one of the towels, getting it properly soaked, and then wrung it dry enough that it wouldn’t drip when applied to Will’s face. With a finger beneath Will’s chin, Hannibal tilted his head back, then gently laid the steaming towel over the lower half of his face and lifted the ends to drape over his eyes, leaving only his nose exposed. Gently he pressed his palms against the cloth, letting the heat absorb into Will’s skin and feeling the soft puffs of Will’s breaths against his knuckles. After a minute he removed the towel and flashed the barest of smiles when Will cracked one eye open.

“I’m beginning to see why this holds such longstanding appeal for you,” he said.

“Like most rituals, its performance is a source of normalcy and comfort even in precarious times.” Hannibal folded the towel over the side of the tub and then withdrew the shaving soap along with the cup and brush. “I’m pleased to be able to share it with you, though I must confess I harbour reservations about so altering your appearance.”

Will tilted his chin back down to better meet Hannibal’s eyes. “Why? Afraid you won’t like me as much after?”

Hannibal lifted his eyebrows. “Aside from pointing out the impossibility of such a suggestion, I must ask: Are you more afraid I won’t, or afraid my admiration will remain stalwart despite your best attempts to dissuade me?”

Will parted his lips in surprise at the question but then shook his head once. “Hannibal. That isn’t what this is.”

Except for the brush of his fingertips against the back of Hannibal's hand on the counter, Will said nothing further. They were silent as Hannibal lathered up the brush and then began swirling it over Will’s beard in a thick layer.

“Have you given any thought to your own appearance?” Will asked finally in between strokes of the brush over his thinned lips. His eyes were closed again, seemingly in enjoyment, and he was trying to move his mouth as little as possible as he spoke. “If you weren’t notoriously recognizable before, you will be now. I doubt you’ll be taking up any lecturers’ positions soon.”

“To the contrary. Apart from Jack’s natural suspicions, the world thinks we are dead,” Hannibal answered. “But regardless I have never felt the need to camouflage myself. People see what they wish to see, and that is where I have always lived--between expectations and doubt.” Swirling the brush one final time over Will’s jaw, he pulled back and smiled. “You know something of this. But if you feel this will help you look over your shoulder less, I am happy to provide that security.”

“There will never be security for us.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He closed his fingers around the straight razor on the countertop and twirled it once with a flourish. Predictably Will gave a huff of exasperation, though a smile managed to steal in, and Hannibal met and held his gaze as he turned to face him fully. 

Will spread his knees wider in wordless invitation, fingers curled around the rim of the sink. The simple gesture made something unfurl in Hannibal’s belly like a dark flower. Accepting the opportunity to step closer until his pelvis bumped the sink, he felt Will’s thighs on either side of his hips, their chests touching. This was so unusually close as to present some difficulty for the actual shaving, but Hannibal was never one to shy from a challenge.

He began to draw the razor down Will’s cheek in short, careful strokes, mindful of the scar, and his beard came away in thick black clumps mixed with foam. Hannibal continuously wiped it away on a towel. Will kept very still except for his chest, which started to rise and fall more deeply with each breath. His lips, as the blade exposed them from the lather, had grown quite red.

“Describe how you would envision my disguise,” Hannibal prompted, a distraction for them both. Even over the smell of the soap and shaving oil, Hannibal’s nose couldn’t lie; while attempting to hold the razor steady, he endeavoured very hard not to think too much about what his olfactory sense was telling him. He was a grown man who’d long ago mastered control over temptation, except, it seemed, the one before him now. Perhaps that had always been the case for the last five interminable years, at least.

He saw the impression of a smile beneath the shaving foam. “You’re too charming,” Will said. His voice had taken on a dreamy quality with the effort of remaining still. “And too handsome. People remember that. So probably a beard’s the way to go, all irony aside. Maybe grow out your hair and stop dressing like you just walked off Savile Row. What are they calling it now--a man bun? You could cultivate that Eurotrash look pretty easily if you wished. Throw on a pair of ripped jeans and a leather jacket and no one would know it’s you.” 

“I don’t wish,” Hannibal answered, flat. He could hear the knee-jerk disgust in his own voice. He felt Will’s shoulders shake and knew he was being laughed at. “Although if you asked, I’d be willing to oblige. You’ve already changed me in all the ways that count. My physical appearance pales by comparison, within reason.”

“That kind of power is dangerous.” At that Will did smile more widely, so that Hannibal had to tut at him to get his face to go back the way it was. “Although there’s something satisfying about the thought of both of us making ourselves completely unrecognizable to everyone but each other.”

“We would always know one another,” Hannibal echoed softly. “Man buns and all.”

Will snorted then was again silent, but he released his grip on the sink and let his hands creep upward, sliding against the fabric covering Hannibal’s hips. It was a soft, strange, hypnotic caress, but as Hannibal finished with Will’s cheeks and moved on to his neck, tipping his head back once again, the caress turned to a swift clench of fingers.

At the first pass of the razor over his Adam’s apple, Will groaned a low note in his throat and swallowed once, hard enough that Hannibal could hear the click of his aesophagus.

“Did I catch you?” he murmured, knowing full well he hadn’t, but Will swallowed again and said, “Yes. Keep--keep going.”

The tension in Will seemed to wind tighter each time Hannibal dragged the razor over his throat, but it wasn’t fear. By the time Hannibal shaved off the last of his beard in the first pass, Will was clutching his flanks, head still thrown back. What Hannibal could smell now, could feel pressed against his hip, was unmistakable. 

Unable to help himself, he dipped his head to nose against the slick skin of Will’s jaw, lips brushing the barest hint of leftover stubble, and felt the answering cant of Will’s hips. Hannibal’s mouth went dry. He tipped Will’s head down to give one last flick of the razor beneath his lower lip in a parting kiss. 

When Hannibal released him, Will slumped back against the mirror, pulling at Hannibal’s shirt as he went, and his skin was flushed a fetching shade of pink from the eyes down. His nipples were hard and pinched-looking and he was panting like he’d just finished hoisting the sails. “Hann--” he began, but Hannibal shushed him.

“We’ve one more pass yet,” he said gruffly and exchanged the razor for the shaving oil. “This time against the grain, so you must hold very still unless you want me to draw blood.”

Will made a noise that sounded remarkably like a whimper, but he obeyed, sitting up straight. He bared his throat until the tendons stood out in relief. Hannibal wanted to bite the sharp point of his Adam’s apple. Instead he massaged more oil over Will’s face with his fingers and thumbs, allowing himself to linger this time, mapping the foreign smoothness of Will’s cheeks and chin and neck until Will’s mouth had gone slack and he’d clenched his eyes shut in concentration. Hannibal was frightfully aware of the pressure of Will’s thighs against his hips, pelvises pressed together in suggestion of what, perhaps, might still come. He released a soft breath, thankful Will wasn’t looking at the expression on his face. He picked up the razor again.

For his part Hannibal kept his palm against the side of Will’s neck, unconsciously echoing the way he’d touched him many times before, though he’d never before used his thumb to press Will’s chin back, stretching his throat. It was carnal, dangerous, yet strikingly unfamiliar in its lack of intent. It easily could have been otherwise; everything Hannibal felt bubbling up inside him was violent enough that he feared a loss of control. Will seemed to have already relinquished it, trembling and biting his lip as if on the verge of orgasm. 

Hannibal was a touch rushed as he finished the shave, undone by the quiet needy sound that spilled from Will’s mouth. He all but flung the razor into the sink, where it clattered against the porcelain, and lifted his free hand to cup the other side of Will’s jaw, marvelling at how Will let his neck go nearly limp beneath Hannibal’s touch. His skin was shockingly smooth.

“Will,” he said, all but propping up his head. “Will, look at me.” He was reminded of holding Will through a seizure in his old dining room in such a faraway time. Reminded of that long-ago plea for him to cease his lies.

Will opened his eyes drowsily and Hannibal smiled, tracing his eyes over his face to take him all in. He could have gazed upon his countenance for years and still not properly captured his beauty. Somewhere in an evidence locker were the notebooks to prove it, filled by the dozen. What had Jack Crawford made of that?

“I thought you would appear much younger clean-shaven,” he said. His own voice sounded foreign to him, thick and rougher than the ocean during a squall. “You don’t, not quite. It merely gives no impression of gentleness. Nor does it desire to, I think. You look deadly and beautiful, as all the most dangerous hunters are.” With his thumbs he smoothed a line down Will’s jaw toward his lips and felt the way Will leaned in to the touch, seeking more. “There is no hiding who you are now. My lovely, half-starved predator. What do you hunger for?”

Hannibal tasted Scotch and shaving lather as Will dragged him in and pressed their mouths together, tasted his own quiet noise of surprise at the hot brush of Will’s tongue against his lip. It felt over too soon when Will pulled away, even just far enough to speak. Hannibal was instantly bereft.

“The only thing I  _ hunger _ for,” Wil said, breathing harshly against Hannibal’s mouth, “is for us to stop dancing around this elephant in the room. It’s  _ enough _ .”

Hannibal, affronted, felt his lip curl involuntarily. “I have been upfront with you about my feelings from the start.”

“What we have between us isn’t honesty. It’s obfuscation,” Will answered. His voice was hard but not harsh. “You’ve never told me how you feel about me. Or I you. Maybe it’s time. We’ve never properly said--” He took a deep breath and slid a hand up to tangle in the hair at Hannibal’s nape, but used the other to guide Hannibal’s hand to the bulge in the front of his jeans. They both gasped. “We talk in riddles and metaphors and this endless goddamn language of shared glances. Teacups and time--where has it gotten us? Forgive me if I’m a little tired of being coy when we’ve already hurt each other in all the ways it’s possible for two people to do so. I want us--I want us to just  _ be _ . No more playing, no more hiding.”

Hannibal shut his eyes and brushed his lips against the corner of Will’s mouth, pressing the words into his skin. He touched that smoothness, so unfamiliar as to seem unnatural. “And this is your way of telling me you’re ready to confront our relationship, is it? Donning a new persona you think will be better able to face the inevitable?”

A clench of Will’s fingers, then a hiss of breath that was unmistakably anger. He turned his head to bite once, viciously, at Hannibal’s chin. Hannibal twitched and held back the urge to moan, and his fingers spasmed around Will’s erection. “It isn’t inevitability that brought me here,” he spat. “It’s choice. You’re an idiot if you can’t see this isn’t about hiding behind a mask. It’s about taking it off. The people suits are gone, Hannibal. I want you to see me like I see you. Stripped down, naked. No armor. I want to stop pretending this is anything except what it is.” 

“There is no need to be rude,” Hannibal chastised. “You may tell me, in your own words, what you believe this is, Will. You who claim does not share my appetites. We dove off the cliff and did not die. Beyond that did you believe a life together would last? Or did you even have cause to think about it, believing we would perish together?”

Will was staring at him intently when Hannibal opened his eyes. “I’m yours ’til death,” he said, the word imbued with a fierceness that raised the hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck. “Now or forty years from now, Hannibal. By your hand or someone else’s. There is no walking away for me. And not for you. I know you love me, and I--” Will broke off and parted his lips with a wet sound, his breath trembling past them. “I love you.” Hannibal blinked. He did not let his expression go blank so much as he felt it drain from his face, bleeding out. “I refuse to believe or keep convincing myself this is some impossible fantasy. The fairy tale wasn’t thinking we could have a life together. It was pretending we could have anything but.”

“Pretty words,” Hannibal forced out. Despite himself he was afraid to believe it. Even with Will’s taste on his lips, he was afraid to hope.

Hand still on the back of his neck, Will nudged Hannibal’s face closer so their lips bumped and caught, sticky like honeyed figs. He whispered, “I’m done with words. If you want me, do it now. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

It was Hannibal who closed the remaining distance between them, powerless to hold back longer, and Will arched into the kiss with his whole body like the swell of a wave. With his arms and legs he drew Hannibal in, winding about him until it seemed impossible even for air to pass between them. Hannibal’s arm was caught between them at an awkward angle. He had always imagined, in moments of weakness, any possible joining between them would be tender, perhaps tentative, two apex predators lying down in wary resignation after the fur finished flying. But this was violence of an elemental nature, not animal, atoms smashing together until they were changed forever.

Will, often so sparse in word and deed, was noisy and unrestrained, kissing Hannibal with the kind of passion he reserved for killing. He bit and licked at Hannibal’s mouth like a man possessed, hands rough and grasping at his hair as Hannibal squeezed and stroked the hardness in his hand. Was this how it felt to be eaten alive? He kissed Will back as though this too was the only way he could have ever envisioned consuming him. The skin of Will’s back was hot and smooth beneath his palm, Hannibal’s hand splayed on one side of his spine to support and keep him close, closer. Will’s tongue in his mouth was a nearly divine experience, and like anyone confronted with the face of God, Hannibal felt electrified by it, euphoric, and half-mad with terror despite himself.

A sharp tug against his sweater interrupted the kiss. With a growl of displeasure, Hannibal let himself be pushed away so Will could yank the offending article over his head, though the resulting thrill of skin against skin made him less bitter over the separation, however brief. More thrilling yet was the firm gentle hand Will placed upon his chest, the fingers he tangled in Hannibal’s chest hair as though learning its texture. He wore an expression on his face that was unreadable but calm. Calmer, certainly, than Hannibal felt at the moment.

“I can see the novelty of this experience upon your face,” he said, a little breathless. 

“New, not novel,” corrected Will. He sighed once, deeply, and continued to watch his hand’s path as he trailed his touch down to the slight softness of Hannibal’s belly. “It’s an answer to a question I’ve been asking a long time.”

Was it possible Hannibal’s heart tripped a beat? Beyond words, he ran the backs of his knuckles down Will’s shoulders, grazing old scars and new, raised tissue and softer skin. When his path ghosted over Will’s collarbone, he did not miss the subtle shiver it elicited, nor the fine goosebumps that appeared across Will’s chest. Hannibal hadn’t yet shed three years’ worth of inadequate sun exposure, whereas Will had already begun to tan as they sailed their way into warmer waters. His skin yet held some of the smooth suppleness of youth and drew Hannibal’s touch like a magnet, then lower, until he felt the pebbly flesh of Will’s nipple hardening under his touch. 

“Hell,” Will breathed and pushed his chest against Hannibal’s hand like a cat. The South bled into his voice with that one word, to Hannibal’s delight. “Do that harder.”

Hannibal softly tutted at the order but was smiling despite himself. Naturally he obliged, for no other reason than to hear the broken noise Will made in his throat. “Is this what you imagined, Will?” he asked. “What it would be like with a man?”

Will gave a sound closer to a huff than a laugh, then retaliated with a hard tug at Hannibal’s chest hair. The small shock of pain made Hannibal hiss, and he swayed closer in the hopes of another kiss. Will brought him up short. 

“I don’t imagine myself with men,” Will said. The tone of his voice said, clearly, he knew Hannibal was pushing his buttons and he wasn’t impressed by the attempt. “I’ve imagined myself with you, and that’s not the same thing. Not the way you mean.” He leaned close to nose the length of Hannibal’s neck and beneath his jaw. Wickedly he turned the question back on Hannibal, rasping, “Does it excite you to know I’ve thought about it?”

“As much as any glimpse of the inner workings of your mind has ever excited me, yes,” Hannibal admitted. He was sure that knowledge would be used against him again in future, Hannibal Lecter plagued by something so mundane as sexual frustration. “When did you first think about it?” he asked, voice pitched low and rough. Slowly he reached for the fly of Will’s jeans and undid the button, then tugged the zipper down enough that he could reach inside. He encountered nothing but bare flesh, a fact Will acknowledged with a whimper when Hannibal closed his hand around him again.

Will breathed, the faintest whine escaping him. The warmth of his mouth against Hannibal’s jugular burned with honesty, the heat of defenses crumbling like their bluff crumbled into the sea. Hannibal wondered if it felt as revelatory to Will as it did to him.

“When I first got out of prison,” Will answered against his throat. Hannibal started to drag his fist up and down as he spoke, fingers tight around Will’s cock. The angle and range of motion inside the constraints of his jeans left something to be desired, but Hannibal drank in Will’s soft groans of pleasure like the most exquisite music, the way Will’s breath hitched as his foreskin slipped up and down over the head of his cock with Hannibal’s strokes. “I couldn't think about anyone but you. I would fantasize about ending your life, beating you bloody or cutting your throat. Hurting you with my hands until the hurt became something else.”

Yes, Hannibal remembered. Listening to Will describe how he imagined killing him remained among his fondest and most erotic memories of their time together, before. “How could I forget how integral a part my own hypothetical death would play in your becoming?” He sighed and tipped his head to one side to offer better access to his neck. Will took the invitation, sucking with force that was sure to leave Hannibal’s neck a mess of bruises, and it seemed to take him a moment to collect himself enough to speak or tear himself away. 

“I hated you so much it felt sexual.  _ Wanted _ to hate. Didn't know what I needed more: to kill you or fuck you,” he murmured through his quiet panting. A sharp, slow inhale that Hannibal mirrored, nostrils flaring. “Or both.” 

“A pity you didn’t tell me then, at the peak of your righteous hatred.”

Will chuckled brokenly. “Would’ve made for one hell of an interesting therapy session.”

He slid his palms around the back of Hannibal’s neck and brought their faces together again. Hannibal could feel Will’s hands shaking slightly against his nape, and he was thrusting into the circle of Hannibal’s fingers with tiny circles of his pelvis, breath growing more unsteady, voice pushing into each exhale in quiet huffs. 

As if to forestall any judgement--and what could he ever expect from that quarter, from Hannibal, other than utter delight--Will kissed him deeply, holding him close. Hannibal indulged him until the impassioned sounds Will made against his mouth became too much to bear. 

“Will,” he murmured. With his free hand he cupped Will’s cheek but continued to stroke him with the other, rubbing slow circles against the underside of his cock that made Will twitch and gasp. He turned his head to nuzzle against Hannibal’s palm, eyes half-lidded. Acting on a whim, Hannibal traced the shape of Will’s lips with his thumb and shivered when Will took it between his teeth, then sucked gently upon the tip without releasing his gaze. “My beautiful Will,” he repeated. “What do you want?”

Will dropped his eyes to Hannibal’s lips and released his thumb to mouth against the butt of his palm before answering. “Your mouth,” he choked out after a significant pause, though whether because he had to think about it or find the words, Hannibal didn’t know. “I want your mouth. Without violence for once.” Self-consciously Will half laughed, half moaned, and added, “Or you can keep doing what you’re doing, but I’d really rather have you suck me.”

“And is that all?” 

With a shake of his head, Will answered, “No. But it’s a start.” 

He slid off the counter when Hannibal released him. Unsteady on his feet, he braced his hands against Hannibal’s shoulders for balance and flashed him a heated look when Hannibal brought his arms around the graceful sway of Will’s waist, then slid an exploratory touch along the smooth skin of his stomach and where the raised pink line of his scar bisected it. The look on Will’s face was unreadable, taut with emotion Hannibal chose not to guess at, as though the guessing might somehow cheapen it, but his mouth was parted slightly, lips flushed dark pink.

Eyes locked with Will’s, Hannibal set about pushing his jeans farther down his hips. When they nudged below the swell of his buttocks, Hannibal gracefully went to his knees and peered up at Will from the most exquisite vantage point. Even the scattered hair clippings on the floor weren’t enough to distract him from his goal. Will had a beautiful cock, long and thick, uncircumcised, and the same dusky pink shade as his nipples. The swollen heft of it was at eye level, and Hannibal’s mouth flooded with want. 

Beneath his skin, energy crackled like a live wire, sparking bright and dangerous, and he fastened his teeth over the jut of Will’s left hipbone to feel a small release of it. He didn’t break the skin but considered it briefly, hearing Will’s groan grow in volume and urgency the harder Hannibal bit down; Will’s cock leaped against Hannibal’s collarbone, and he took him in hand again, pumping slowly to spread that moisture down his length. It was sticky and wet, catching between Hannibal’s fingers like spider’s silk.

Lovely Will. He was hot as a brand against Hannibal’s palm, smelling of soap and sweat and musky precome. Hannibal leaned in to taste the crease between his groin and thigh and breathed him in deeply, thinking himself a man halfway to intoxicated and seeking oblivion. He trapped Will’s cock against his trembling stomach and opened his mouth against the base, a lingering, sucking kiss, then flattened his tongue to lap him slowly from root to tip. He did it once, twice, then travelled lower to mouth at his testicles. Their eyes stayed locked, and Hannibal considered the possibility Will’s legs might give out from under him, so devastated did he look.

Hannibal returned to the tip to swirl his tongue playfully around beneath his foreskin, and Will said, “Oh Christ,” in a drawn-out breath like he was only just realizing what he’d asked. His hands seized upon Hannibal’s shoulders and travelled up to his head, clutching at the hair without yanking. His cock gave a strong twitch and pulsed precome onto Hannibal’s tongue. “Oh God.”

Hannibal pulled back with a slow, delighted smile. Swallowed. “You flatter,” he answered lazily, “but I assure you He is not here.”

“You aren’t funny,” Will gasped. “Please shut the hell up and keep doing what you’re doing.”

Used by now to Will’s bluntness, Hannibal obeyed, summoning enough saliva to coat his cock as he slid his mouth along the shaft and then back up. He tugged gently at the foreskin with his teeth until Will hissed, then pulled it back delicately to expose the head. He took it in his mouth and closed his lips around it, and that drew a sound from them both, Will perhaps a tad louder. Hannibal glanced up to see Will had gone tense, head thrown back.

He was aware of the obvious connotations that could be made between his love for this act and his other proclivities, but never had he enjoyed it quite so much as with Will moaning and gasping above him, every sound punched out of him. He sounded like a man in the most exquisite pain, and the irony of that in the absence of a blade was not lost on Hannibal. Will seemed unable to stop the movements of his hips, little restrained twitches Hannibal could tell he was trying to be polite about. Hannibal sucked until they were both noisily breathless, digging his fingers into Will’s hips until he was sure to leave bruises. He felt as though he’d been hollowed out and set aflame like a match to a dormant forest.

Will cursed again, a clipped, broken “fuck” as Hannibal took him deep. Uncertain where to linger, he fluttered his fingers over Hannibal’s shoulders, hair, his mouth where his lips were stretched taut. Hannibal looked up again to find Will’s eyes on him, slitted but open while his mouth hung slack. He was breathing and making small sounds much like those of his long-ago seizures, body a foreign vessel outside his control. He looked bewildered and undone, lost; he was giving himself over to pleasure, to Hannibal, and it was so very beautiful on him. 

His beatific expression caused Hannibal to groan helplessly as the ache of arousal grew unbearably sympathetic. He released Will’s hip to undo the button on his own pants, shoving his hand beneath the waistband in search of temporary relief. Genuinely he couldn’t remember the last time a lover’s ecstasy had affected him so viscerally, if ever. He prided himself on his ability to perform this act, skillful but single-minded, focused not on himself but on making his partner feel what he wanted them to feel, be it pleasure or pain. All of his usual pleased detachment was as lost to him as a vessel breaking itself against the rocks at sea.

“H-Hannibal,” Will crooned, voice breaking on the name. “Hell, Hannibal, I’m--I’m already…” 

He swallowed audibly around a groan and released Hannibal’s hair to steady himself against the edge of the sink. He was shaking almost violently, tremors in his legs threatening to upheave him, and Hannibal could have basked forever in the sound of him coming undone, echoed it in a feedback loop with no beginning or end, much like his relationship with Will. Were he less aware of Will’s profound effect on him, he would have been appalled at how close he to incoherence he was himself. 

Hannibal let him go with something bordering on a snarl and roughly spun Will so his front was pressed against the counter. Sweat gleamed upon his shoulder blades and ran in rivulets down his spine like he’d been anointed. Hannibal rose briefly to chase them with his tongue, tasting salt as he licked and bit a line up Will’s back before he settled again on his knees. 

For a moment he did little more than stare, then cupped his palm against the back of Will’s thigh beneath the crease of his buttocks. His legs were strong and shapely as any David’s, calves rounded and muscular, thighs corded, thick with muscle for his lithe frame, and the beautiful firm globes of his ass filled Hannibal’s palms. 

Under the scrutiny, Will released a shivery sigh. He bent forward at the waist, resting his forehead upon the sink’s edge, where he breathed and let Hannibal look his fill. Hannibal, mouth suddenly very dry, swallowed. He wished to speak but couldn’t find any words to satisfy the overwhelming tightness in his chest.

Will nearly jumped a mile when Hannibal gripped his cheeks with both hands, fingers digging in as he spread them apart and bared Will to his ravenous eyes and desperate mouth. Hannibal would know him everywhere. Words might have failed him, but taste, as ever, could not.

“Oh fuck,” Will swore softly. Hannibal heard the realization clear in his voice, shock mingling with, perhaps, a touch of mortification. Will whimpered quietly at whatever image formed in his mind. Was it an accurate reflection of Hannibal’s desires, or did Will’s imagination once again eclipse him? “Are you--” 

Hannibal had presence of mind enough to be amused by the sudden narrowness of Will’s vocabulary. He wondered if his capacity for intelligent speech would disappear entirely under the right circumstances, could be fucked out of him, and to his great satisfaction, Will released a wordless yelp at the sharp nip Hannibal bestowed to the roundest point of his ass, a mark that would all too swiftly fade. Will turned a wide-eyed look at him from where his face was still pillowed on the sink. 

Feeling enormously self-satisfied, Hannibal leaned in and buried his mouth at the hot centre of him, pressing in until Will scrabbled helplessly at the countertop. He pushed himself onto the tips of his toes until he went too boneless to support his own weight and Hannibal was all but holding him up. Spearing his tongue into the impossible tightness of his entrance, Hannibal groaned deep in his chest when the muscles around his tongue spasmed uncontrollably. He licked into Will harder, unrelenting, but just as Will was about to come otherwise untouched, a rapturous cry building in his throat, Hannibal whipped a hand around Will’s hip, locking around the base of his cock with punishing strength. 

Just as planned, it staved off Will’s orgasm at the point of crisis, and Will gave a shout of confused surprise, jerking back against Hannibal’s mouth like he’d been shot. The shout turned into a grunt of rage when he realized Hannibal wouldn’t allow him release. He sounded bewildered, but more than that, indignant Hannibal would do such a thing to him. As if it were really so unfathomable the Chesapeake Ripper’s cheerful sadism might apply in the bedroom as well. 

The bathroom mirror gave a furious rattle beneath Will’s palms as he struck out, slapping them against the glass with a sob of frustration as he tried to ride back against Hannibal’s face, pushing onto his tiptoes in his desperation for more. His legs were shaking uncontrollably, body struggling to absorb the shock it’d been dealt. 

Hannibal merely grinned and didn’t loosen his grip on Will’s cock until the harsh breathing started to steady, petering out into small, pleading whimpers. He knew what Will felt, that desperation to come and how every sensation and touch would feel amplified a thousandfold in this overstimulated state. Cruelly he ran a hand down the back of Will’s asscheek, digging in until his nails left a trail of red welts, and Will groaned unabashedly, the sound animalistic, and his hole quavered against Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal felt a surge of adoration that left him nearly lightheaded. Will’s breath whistled in and out for several seconds as Hannibal continued to tongue lazily at his twitching entrance until he was murmuring nonsense and shivering. 

Satisfied Will’s impending climax had subsided for the moment, Hannibal let him go and withdrew to a noise of protest, though he went no farther than to trail kisses and calculated scrapes of his stubble over the sensitive skin of Will’s perineum and around his hole. Though Will jolted and hissed, he didn’t try to twist away. Hannibal could do this for hours, nothing but soft kisses and licks until they were both sopping wet and shaking and Hannibal’s jaw had grown numb and his knees were on fire from having knelt so long. 

He could drag it out further, torture Will viciously until he begged, but Hannibal thought, perhaps, that was something he could work up to. He was satisfied Will had gotten an inkling of what he was capable of with enough time and motivation to teach him an altogether new meaning of agony. The thought nevertheless sent a shiver of anticipation through him. There’d be other opportunities, he was certain, provided he didn’t antagonize Will so much that he sought to retaliate with one of his effective, if petty, tactics. Hannibal could picture it: Will dangling himself like a prize beneath Hannibal’s nose, dancing ever just out of reach until they both grew murderous with frustration. Will was vindictive enough for it. It would entertain them both for a time, but he’d much rather Will be a willing participant in his own undoing.

He could taste shades of it already, pliant submission in the way Will grew increasingly boneless the longer Hannibal continued to tongue at his entrance, as if resigned to the alternating gentle flicks and lazy circling with the occasional detour lower, touches meant to stimulate but not satisfy. Were it not for his trembling body and breathy moans, Will might have been asleep. His hole relaxed until he was loose and slippery enough for Hannibal to press his tongue inside, drawing a sound from Will very much like when Hannibal had entered his stomach with a knife. 

Hannibal didn’t know how long he kept at it, but it was long enough that he felt Will start to edge towards the precipice again. At first Will seemed to let himself drift on the feelings Hannibal woke in him, circling his hips against Hannibal’s mouth with the same lassitude that’d overtaken the rest of him, but before long, he surrendered to his body’s insistence and reached behind himself, threading trembling fingers through Hannibal’s hair to keep him close. He arched back with a pleading gasp, gritting out, “More, damn you.”

Hannibal pulled back with a wet hum. “You are greedy, Will,” he praised, which earned him a disgruntled noise Hannibal silenced--or rather transformed into a strangled moan--by licking a painfully slow stripe from behind Will’s balls, not stopping until he’d reached the dimples on his lower back. His voice was dreadfully hoarse as he asked, “Shall I continue like this, or would something else be more to your liking?”

In answer Will tried to widen his stance but was hindered by the jeans still around his ankles. He struggled for a moment to free himself with Hannibal’s assistance until he could get his feet more than hip distance apart. He made a pleased guttural moan when Hannibal, growling his satisfaction, pushed his face deeper between Will’s cheeks and began to tongue and suck at him more noisily, using his thumbs to spread him open. In seconds Will was pushing against his mouth, whining at the back of his throat as Hannibal gave a series of slow, light licks at his rim. He felt a bone-deep shudder in response and the goosebumps that rose on Will’s skin.

“What a sensitive thing you are,” Hannibal observed. “Like your whole body is begging for it even if you do not ask me in words. I’ve a mind to see how much you can withstand before you yield.”

Will whimpered like he was afraid Hannibal might try to find out, but Hannibal noticed he didn’t tell him no. He let out a drawn-out moan at the finger Hannibal wetted with saliva and brushed against him, applying slight pressure that served the dual purpose of opening Will gradually and letting him know Hannibal’s intention. The tip of Hannibal’s finger began to slide into that wonderful heat, and he inhaled sharply, feeling the tug of Will’s body as the muscle attempted to draw him farther inside. Will, guided by sensation alone, arched his back and shifted his legs farther apart, pushing his ass out so he was completely open for Hannibal’s eyes, his mercy, his touch.

Hannibal hissed quietly at the arresting sight and said, “Watching you surrender to pleasure is no less beautiful than seeing you take a life. Desperate to resist how good it feels before you give yourself over to it with abandon.”

Will had buried his face in a cradle of his arms, and he gave a muffled noise, then, “Are you going to fuck me or write a poem about it first?” 

Hannibal smiled and had to rest his forehead against the firm swell of Will’s right buttock to stifle his chuckle, charmed by the ire in Will’s voice and his persistent surliness, even under the circumstances. He withdrew his finger to a hitch of breath from Will, and Hannibal tried to ignore the feeling the sound stirred in his breast as he reluctantly straightened, dragging kisses up Will’s spine as he went until they were pressed front to back. 

Immediately Will angled his head for a kiss over his shoulder, lips catching the corner of Hannibal’s mouth as he rubbed himself against Hannibal in a way that could have been unconscious. Whether the cause was contentment or urgency, he seemed incredibly self-assured about what he wanted for someone whose body had likely never been thus explored, not even by his wife. Will seemed the missionary type with women, neither shy nor forward--safe, preferring to shape himself to someone else’s desires. Hannibal allowed himself to feel pleased he’d gotten Will to open up like this, to push, manipulate,  _ demand _ . He palmed Will’s wet cock where it arced against his stomach just to hear him sigh. 

Hannibal asked, “Is that what you would like?” He trailed his hands down to stroke the sides of Will’s hips and felt him give another shiver.

“What, a poem?” Will countered. He dragged his teeth against Hannibal’s chin in not quite a bite, and Hannibal ducked his head to kiss the column of Will’s throat to where it met his shoulder. 

“You deserve to be written about,” he murmured. “Entire epics like Achilles wrote for his Patroclus.”

Somehow Will simultaneously managed to blush and shoot Hannibal a dry look in the mirror. “Should I wait here while you go do that?”

“You should remain exactly as you are,” answered Hannibal and scraped his teeth against Will’s shoulder. 

He dropped his hands to down his trousers and his underwear, fully freeing his cock. It slapped against his stomach, the foreskin almost entirely pushed back. Hannibal grunted at the jolt and buried his nose in Will’s skin. Entirely too much time had passed since he could remember being so achingly hard, adolescent, almost, in his body’s eagerness. He gathered Will close to him again with an arm around his chest, cock nestling perfectly between Will’s buttocks, and the friction of skin on skin tugged teasingly on his foreskin and smeared seminal fluid against Will’s lower back each time either of them shifted. Will blushed even redder at that, and without his beard, there was no hiding it. 

Knowing precisely the reaction it’d elicit, Hannibal laid kisses behind his ear and murmured, “There is more than one way to create poetry,” rocking himself against Will’s ass in a way that made the ache grow almost unbearable.

Naturally Will groaned at the line but responded in counterpoint, rubbing himself slowly against Hannibal’s cock, asking without asking. He had led them this far with very little encouragement or manipulation from Hannibal, but he needed to hear Will say it.

“Ask me, Will,” he rushed out against his skin as their eyes met in the mirror. “Ask me for what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Do you want me to beg?” Will paused to let a coy look pass between them and then added, “Say pretty please, maybe?”

For that Hannibal slanted a smile at him but shook his head and smoothed his hands down Will’s sides, slotting his thumbs into the neat crevices of his hipbones. “Not beg. Only say my name so I can make you forget all those who came before me. Say it as though mine is the only name you will say again.”

It was, Hannibal thought in retrospect, perhaps an overly saccharine sentiment, and starkly possessive in its totality. He regretted not a word of it, wanting Will wholly, unapologetically and unrepentantly, but he didn’t anticipate the response it elicited, Will rounding on him with such suddenness as to seem aggressive, even angry. Before Hannibal could parse the reaction, he found himself shoved unceremoniously into a sitting position on the closed toilet, sit bones colliding painfully with the lid. The startled look he turned on Will was sharply abbreviated by Will throwing his full body weight upon him, straddling Hannibal’s thighs and clutching at his shoulders mercilessly.

 Then Will’s mouth crashed down upon him, biting, seeking to bruise and consume. Hannibal caught his back with his hands, holding him near as Will jerked within his grasp and tugged viciously at his bottom lip with his teeth. He seemed to struggle closer until the struggle turned to a sinuous undulation that pushed their cocks together between their bellies. Will rocked into the friction, fucked into it, painting the hair on Hannibal’s stomach with wet with each buck and seize of his body.

“Hannibal,” he said into the kiss, crooning it, and Hannibal could hear the note of self-congratulation, his name said not in pleading or request, but as one bestowed a gift. Will’s unflaggingly righteous satisfaction made Hannibal moan into his mouth almost as much as the sound of his name, and he clutched Will tighter until he said it again, “ _ Hannibal _ ” rolling off his tongue like a benediction. 

At Hannibal’s growl, Will smiled against his lips and then worked a hand between them to grasp Hannibal’s erection, fist tight and unforgiving around the base. Distantly Hannibal was aware of him reaching for the counter with the other, knocking most of the contents of the shaving kit to the ground before he returned to anoint Hannibal’s cock with a slick substance from his fingers. The familiar scent of his shaving oil hit Hannibal’s nose, and he groaned in understanding, hitching Will’s body higher so they could position his cock in a combined effort.

“Seat yourself on me slowly,” Hannibal said roughly as Will began to lower himself, both request and warning so he did not cause himself undue discomfort. “Let me feel every inch of you.” 

Will choked out a sound and clung to his shoulders as Hannibal began to penetrate him, his opening spasming around the head of Hannibal’s cock as he struggled to relax. He threw his head back to pant noisily at the ceiling, fingers digging in like tenterhooks, and his body’s resistance was almost too much to be pleasurable until Hannibal dragged his nails down Will’s spine to distract him, leaning in to mouth rough kisses along his throat. It worked long enough for the crown to push in, and Will nearly sobbed. Hands still messy with oil, he pushed his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and brought their faces in close, eyes locked together even as his expression momentarily crumpled with pain, breaths harsh and unsteady against Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal watched him back, enraptured by the play of emotions across Will’s face.

“You enslave me,” he rasped, so close to overcome. The incredible tightness around his cock as he entered Will’s body was almost secondary to the sheer rapture he felt for  _ Will _ , a hunger that swelled and built upon itself like his love was both the drug and the loss.

Will shook with effort as he lowered himself little by little, strain apparent in his open mouth and furrowed brow, his little hurt sounds Hannibal until now had always associated with cutting him. But it was Will who took him inside, relentless, used Hannibal to split himself open. Proved with his body, as with his mind, there was no changing him without changing Hannibal too.

The sound Hannibal made when he sank in that final inch was echoed in Will’s voice, a groan that could have come from either or both of them. He’d bared his teeth against the oppressive tightness around his cock, feeling crazed, and perversely Will saw his expression and grinned, more grimace than smile.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asked breathlessly.

Will gave a strangled-sounding laugh. “Better than being stabbed,” he answered.

“If that is all we have to recommend us, then we will have to try much harder,” said Hannibal. He could feel Will had begun to go soft, distracted, no doubt, by the pain and strangeness of being penetrated, but Will huffed gently when Hannibal reached between them to grasp his cock.

“You could try spitting on it,” Will said.

Hannibal gave him an unimpressed look and replied, “I will do no such thing,” then reached instead for the shaving oil. At this rate he would either have to purchase more or consider growing a beard, although personal lubricant wouldn’t go amiss if he and Will planned to continue being intimate. Better to err on the side of presumptuousness than be forced to consider the treasured stock of cold-pressed olive oil in the pantry. 

This time Will sighed when Hannibal returned his slippery hand to his cock and began to stroke slowly, watching his face to see what grip and speed made his mouth go slack as he started to harden again. Before long he was making encouraging sounds and twitching involuntarily into Hannibal’s fist, and Hannibal both heard and felt the moment the pain of penetration turned into the hotter bone-deep ache of being filled, so unlike anything else. Will’s gasp seemed startled from him, like he’d forgotten the purpose of intercourse was to feel pleasure, and Hannibal couldn’t help his smug smile as he saw Will’s eyes fall to half-mast. 

He slowed his strokes to match the rhythm of Will’s hips as he tentatively rocked himself upon Hannibal’s erection, moving with purpose until the push-pull of Hannibal’s cock inside him turned into a slick glide that made them both breathe harder, small moans dropping from each other’s mouths. Gently Hannibal cupped Will’s ass with his free hand, guiding the angle of his thrusts until Will went stiff and uttered a low, desperate keen, a sharp “God, fuck,” all the confirmation Hannibal needed that he’d succeeded in locating his prostate. 

Wending his arms even more tightly about Hannibal’s neck, Will struggled to move himself faster into the channel Hannibal’s hand made around his cock, thrusting up and then impaling himself backwards over and over until his groans had become hoarse, strangled shouts and Hannibal’s legs shook with the approach of his orgasm. Will was all but grinding himself down into Hannibal’s lap, greedily seeking that pressure against his prostate, and distractedly he brought their lips together too, moans falling upon Hannibal’s tongue as they kissed messily and breathed unevenly into each other’s mouths. 

No longer needing to guide Will’s driving hips, Hannibal slid his fingers into Will’s hair and pulled his head back, giving himself access to Will’s neck. The tendons there stood out from the strain, jugular fluttering with his racing heartbeat beneath Hannibal’s lips. 

The drag of his teeth across his throat made Will shudder and spasm as he said sharply, “Hannibal, Hannibal, I’m going to come,” and then Hannibal bit down into the crook between his neck and shoulder. Not hard enough to break the skin but hoping it might. 

A desperate sound escaped him, animal and undone. Hannibal wanted to taste blood and bone, to tear flesh with his teeth, but for perhaps the first time in his life, the urge to protect was as strong as his need to consume, and so he fed his other senses instead, the glorious smell and sound and sight of Will shaking apart around him, his heavy, living weight in Hannibal’s arms. He felt full to bursting without having broken skin, sated on love alone.

The surprise of pain, if not the act itself, seemed to startle Will over the edge. He clenched and jerked, letting go with a rough shout, and Hannibal recognized the sound of his own name, both reverent and rapturous. His release was violent, shooting over Hannibal’s fingers and upon his stomach, even splattering his neck, chest, the underside of his chin. Through it all, Will’s hoarse cries of pleasure, however broken and harsh, his voice used raw, were sweeter to Hannibal’s ears than any aria. He dearly wished he could pause the moment to tell Will how beautiful it was, as beautiful as blood in the moonlight or spilling over his skin.

Hannibal could hold back no longer beneath the relentless flutter of muscles around his cock or Will’s sweet sounds of completion. Releasing Will’s cock, he elicited a soft hiss of near relief as he hooked his hands beneath Will’s thighs to heft him up, then braced his shoulders back against the toilet basin for leverage so he could fuck into that soft, accepting heat. 

Will fell against him with a surprised noise, bracing clumsily upon Hannibal’s chest, and swore with increasing volume and incredulity as Hannibal pounded into him with unapologetic need. Hannibal felt Will’s cock twitch again, releasing a final spurt against his belly, and the agonized whisper made him snarl in response. He cared not that he might later find his ragged breathing and desperate moans undignified, only that his own release was within reach. He managed only a handful more thrusts before Will’s body, still clenching with aftershocks, undid him. He muffled his shout against Will’s shoulder as he came, shoving into him and shuddering with pleasure until nothing more could be wrung from him. 

He let go of Will abruptly, though gently so as not to drop him, and for a moment all Hannibal could hear was their harsh panting, chests heaving together like they might never catch their breath. His hair was lank with sweat, all but dripping into his eyes, face hot and damp from the exertion. Will, as they lifted their heads to stare at each other, fared no better, shorn curls half-plastered against his head in places. 

His flushed cheeks and red, bitten lips were achingly beautiful, and Hannibal felt a shiver of lingering--or perhaps renewed--arousal travel through him at the sight. How had he ever thought eating Will’s brain, however magnificent the organ, would satisfy his hunger? Here he was exhausted, spent, emptied of everything but his love, and still he craved more. This was no mere  _ condition _ he could treat himself for and move on. It was terminal, deadly, but Hannibal had stopped wishing to cure himself. As Will himself once said, there was so saving himself, them, each other. And that was just fine.

Will sat up with effort and cradled Hannibal’s face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over his cheekbones and looking into his eyes through his sleepy, half-lidded gaze. Tenderly he brushed the hair back from Hannibal’s forehead, perhaps the gentlest touch Hannibal had known from him, and it made his heart clench as though this, and not the violence of their joining, would be the thing to send him into a cardiac event. Will opened his mouth to speak but seemed unable to find the words, then instead leaned in to catch Hannibal’s mouth in a deep, searching kiss, lips soft. Hannibal arched up into it, opening his mouth for Will’s tongue, and made a noise that might have been pain. He still had Will’s ass cupped in his his palms and gave a firm squeeze, as much for the enjoyment of the feeling as to draw him closer, and closer yet again.

When Will did pull away from him, he went no farther than to rest their foreheads together as they simply held each other and breathed. Hannibal was reminded, absurdly, of that night on the cliff. But Will made no effort to move, perhaps content, finally, to let himself cherish their bond instead of trying to dash it against the rocks.

“That was intense,” he murmured at last, breath puffing against Hannibal’s mouth. Will turned his head slightly to the side without breaking contact, and Hannibal blurrily saw one corner of his mouth twitch into a crooked smile. Bashful. It made him smile back helplessly at the eternal contradiction that was Will Graham. His lion and lamb in equal measure. “I sure don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I feel damned near turned inside-out.”

“Did you think it wouldn’t be enjoyable?”

Will moved his shoulders in something of a shrug. “I don’t know. Would you believe me if I said I’ve never really given much thought to what anal sex would be like on the receiving end? Mechanically speaking.”

Hannibal made a noncommittal sound, unsurprised. He’d thought as much earlier but didn’t want to insult or anger Will by making inferences about his relationship with the former Mrs. Graham. Or any of his other partners, for that matter. He could broaden Will’s horizons in this by influence and example, just like he’d always endeavoured to do. And if it made Will look back on the narrowness of his experiences before, sexual or otherwise, well, more the better.

He nuzzled against Will’s cheek, gliding his lips against that still-unfamiliar smoothness, and breathed him in, sweat, semen, shaving oil. If happiness could be said to have a scent, this might be it. He doubted he would be able to shave again without feeling aroused. “In truth,” he said, “it was not how I ever imagined it either.”

Will snorted. His tone was all sass. “What did  _ you  _ imagine? Something involving candlelight and thousand-thread-count sheets, no doubt.”

Reproachfully Hannibal gave his ass a sharp squeeze, playful, and smirked when Will hissed and tried to shy away from the touch. Hannibal was still inside him, growing soft, but neither of them made any attempt to separate. “I always thought we might come together driven by rage or desperation,” he answered. “No matter our deeper feelings for each other, I did not expect such... love.”

“It was a little desperate,” said Will, and his shoulders shook gently as he laughed, then groaned in embarrassment. “I threw it at you like the first pitch of the season.”

Despite the inelegant analogy, Hannibal smiled, nothing but warmth in his breast. He loved all shades of his Will, but this was, however indulgently, his favourite. Soft, privately affectionate Will like he’d been in those early days, trusting and open and unexpectedly kind. Will could be as ghastly rude as ever during moments of insecurity or distress, and Hannibal knew there would be no shortage of conflict between them in future whether they continued as lovers or friends. But he suspected Will was remembering what it was like to trust him. To have faith, as unshakable and steadfast as Hannibal’s love, that he had Will’s best interests at heart despite his oft-questionable methods. 

For his part, Hannibal found he wanted to guard that trust, and not merely out of self-interest. He hadn’t the power to change his past mistakes or Will’s, though he still could not compel himself to regret the actions that’d brought them to this point. 

Meanwhile they would be long at sea yet, and Hannibal didn’t begrudge Will his moments of frustration, anger, or outright wickedness. He enjoyed any and all of Will’s unsubtle attempts to wind him up, to bait and tease. Not only that, but it seemed to give Will a reason to be tender after. Hannibal could see how dearly Will needed that, to remember he could be good and kind and gentle as well as manipulative and righteous, deadly. That he could be reward and lure both. It struck something so very raw inside him to see that Will again, defenses surrendered. Softness for softness. Hannibal could be sweet too, for Will. He so often was without conscious effort on his part, and as lovers, he had a whole new language in which to show it. 

“You must never apologize for taking what you want, Will,” he murmured. “Least of all from me.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Will answered flatly. “Just stating as fact.” 

Voice cheerful, Hannibal said, “Then I hope to hear you state it again, in whatever way suits you best. Many times, and with great frequency. Loud or soft, any time of day or night.” 

He cut off Will’s groan of exasperation with a kiss, then attempted to heave himself up to standing with Will in his arms. To Hannibal’s surprise and pleasure, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as he expected despite his age and level of exhaustion, though his stomach did twinge somewhat, reminding him he’d been ambitious with the degree of exertion required by such athletic sex. He would have to work up to it more gradually next time, but gladly.

Will was quick to steady himself with his legs about Hannibal’s hips and his arms around his shoulders, though he made a startled noise into the kiss in his haste to grab on. There would be no carrying his not-insignificant weight to bed again for a while, but in this Hannibal could indulge them both for now.

In his bedroom--perhaps theirs, now, if he dared to presume--Hannibal laid Will down upon the bed and climbed on top of him, content when Will received him into his arms and reached up to stroke Hannibal’s face, elegant fingers soft against his jaw. They settled together, bodies twining sated and comfortable, heedless of the pressing need to bathe, and still Will gazed at him intently. Hannibal sensed he was being looked at as if for the first time, and he allowed that knowledge to soften his expression, staring back at Will with tenderness in his eyes, unafraid of what it might cost him. He had thought himself free before, but he’d been wrong.

“Do you think this is what we were missing all along?” Will asked. Quietly. “Could we have avoided the rest if I’d just run away with you the first time and let myself give in?”

“The seducer seduced? Perhaps.” Hannibal was silent for a moment, not for lack of anything to say, but how to say it. “But you weren’t ready then as you are now. You were still afraid to know me, afraid you wanted it.” He paused, struggled. Hannibal knew how often Will thought of Abigail, but he did not often speak of the fact that her face was never far from his thoughts either. “I too was afraid to know you as you needed to be known. I saw only what I wanted for you, not what you were able to give. For that I’m--”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” Will swallowed. “I already said I forgave you.”

“Asking forgiveness isn’t the same as feeling regret.”

“You don’t feel regret. Your words.”

As much as he hated to be wrong about anything, Hannibal made a thoughtful noise. “I thought that was true before we met. Perhaps it was. But I have come to appreciate that just because I cannot and would not live my life differently, doesn’t mean there are not certain outcomes I might have wished to avoid.”

Contemplatively Will swallowed. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, precisely, but… full. Then Will said, “This doesn’t change anything, Hannibal. Being your lover doesn’t mean I’m any more amenable to being manipulated by you. Or you me. Less, if anything. This needs to balance the scales or not at all.”

Wetting his lips, Hannibal asked, “Do you not feel we’ve come to this point as equals?”

Will gave a frustrated grunt and dropped his hands to wrap his fingers around Hannibal’s wrists. “I’m not talking about whose dick is bigger. I know you’re convinced you know what the inside of my marriage was like even if you’re smart enough to have kept those thoughts to yourself, but I can’t do this with someone who won’t see me any more than you can. I need to be allowed to make my own decisions and have the autonomy to compromise when necessary. No more trying to change each other how he doesn’t want to be changed. Because if all you see here is opportunity to turn me into… into whatever glorified ideal you have of me, then I really will wish we’d died going over that cliff.”

Hannibal ducked his head to press his lips against Will’s shoulder, but Will shrugged him off, seeing through the--albeit flimsy--distancing ploy. Peevish, the feeling compounded by his awareness of his own irritation, Hannibal rolled onto his back and huffed when Will followed him, bracing himself over Hannibal’s chest. The movement made him wince, evidently becoming aware of the effects of their lovemaking on his body, but Will’s fierce gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean it,” he said. “I know it can be hard for you to resist thinking you always know best, or that your compulsive need to be a dick is the only factor that matters in your decision-making process, but this”--Will gestured between them with a jerk of his chin--“is officially not just about you and your God complex anymore. God didn’t have someone to answer to, but you do. Me. And I don’t suffer your transgressions lightly.”

Hannibal met his eyes steadily. Said, “Of anyone, Will, I believe I am well acquainted with your methods of expressing disapproval.”

“Then respect it. You’re never going to stop wanting me to kill indiscriminately, and I’ll never stop wanting you to  _ not _ . So where does that leave us?”

“At a crossroads,” Hannibal answered without artifice. “The qualities we love most in each other are the things we find most… inconvenient about ourselves. I have been cruel to you, yes, as you’ve been ruthless with me. But I do not wish to drive you away and would avoid any course of action that would achieve that. Trust that, if nothing else.”

“So I’ll keep appealing to your compassion for me, and you’ll keep trying to court my righteousness,” Will said, though not without a threat of doubt in his voice. “And we’ll… what? Meet somewhere in the middle and hopefully manage not to kill each other along the way?”

“Need it be more complex than that?” Hannibal countered. “That is the essence of compromise. I would gladly honour such an arrangement to keep the peace with you. I--” He paused, then gently brushed his thumb against Will’s lips and followed the curve of his cheek to his hair, running his fingers across his scarred forehead. Hannibal had no stomach for insincerity, and the words he wished to say, while genuine, did not come easy. “My dear Will. You know not your own power. I would do anything you asked of me, never kill again if you said the word. The compromise would be mine alone.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you. I don’t want a caged lion, not even one who hands me the key. Your beauty lies in your ability to be true to yourself. And so…” Will blew out a hard breath and hung his head. “So does mine. I tried to deprive us of that before, and look how well that turned out.” 

Tired of holding himself up, Will lay down and pillowed his head against Hannibal’s chest, embracing him tightly. Will was upset, tension seeping back into his shoulders, but he wound their legs together, making it clear he didn’t plan to move from where he was welcome. Hannibal took comfort in that and wrapped an arm around Will’s waist, the other around his shoulder so he could reach Will’s hair, grounding himself with the feel of the soft curls against his fingertips. 

Will murmured, “I want to keep the peace with you too. Admittedly I like this more than trying to kill each other; I’m damn tired of all that and fighting myself besides. And I think so are you.”

Hannibal allowed himself a rare thing--hope, and trust in what Will was telling him between the lines. “You are willing to entertain the possibility of hunting together again,” he said, voice deliberately without inflection. 

“I would say more than willing to entertain.” Will rubbed his shaven chin on Hannibal’s skin, a reminder of what had started them down the evening’s path to begin with. Even from this position, Hannibal could sense Will was blushing as he hid his face against Hannibal’s sternum, still, somehow, capable of feeling bashful. But then Will seemed to rally his courage, looked up at him, and said in a low voice, “I want that again with you.” Hannibal felt very calm, even at this small reminder he was as foolish for Will Graham as he was that very first day. “That feeling we had killing Dolarhyde together. It wasn’t just beautiful, it was… right. Don’t you think so?”

In answer Hannibal nudged Will’s head up to kiss him hard, fingers wound as tight in Will’s hair as the shorter strands would permit. He’d intended it to be brief, agreement and punctuation both, but Will made a rough noise and arched against him, deepening the kiss until they were both breathing hard and straining against each other, arousal smoldering anew in Hannibal’s gut despite his body’s insistence there would be none of that for some hours yet. 

Will was attempting to pull Hannibal on top of him again, mouth hungry and hot, and Hannibal eventually nosed him away with a helpless laugh, caging Will in with his arms. Neither of them were hard again yet, but Will seemed to be trying through faith alone. “I fear your recent change of hairstyle has given you the ambitions of a much younger man,” Hannibal said, grinning. He felt the shape of Will’s answering smile against his lips, the force of it enough to make evident the shape of his sharp eye teeth, and he felt Will’s warm palms against his cheeks and his thighs coming up to bracket Hannibal’s hips. 

“I don’t feel like the same man who went over that cliff.” Will gave a breathless laugh edged with nervousness, but Hannibal could hear the sedate tone couched beneath the words. “Like someone else came out of the sea.”

Hannibal put only enough distance between them to be able to touch Will’s face, the smile lines and crinkles beneath his eyes as they gazed at one another, his sharp cupid’s bow and full upper lip unobscured by facial hair. The scar upon his cheek. 

“Someone else went into the sea,” he said softly, voice reverent. His heart swelled with love to see Will’s face, so cherished, momentarily crumple with emotion. He was as beautiful and dear to Hannibal as any tableau he’d ever created or would again. No poetry was left in him now except what he and Will might create together. A fitting end to the Chesapeake Ripper, and perhaps Will had succeeded in what he’d set out to do after all. “It was Will Graham who emerged, entirely himself.”

“What, like Poseidon rising from the waters upon his gilded chariot?” Will suggested and tried to hide the quaver in his voice with a playful snort. When Hannibal raised his eyebrows, Will mirrored his expression guilelessly. Asking without asking; the needs of his heart were, it seemed to Hannibal, not so different from the needs of the body. And much like his physical desires, heretofore Will had  performed admirably at pretending they might not satisfy those together. In time perhaps he would come to voice these demands also.

“Just so,” Hannibal answered. “Risen like a god from the waters in all your great and terrible beauty, resplendent in your power over life and death.” His heart swelled to see Will’s gaze grow tender, and Will touched their foreheads together affectionately.

“I didn’t come out of that water alone,” he said, eyes locked with Hannibal’s. 

Since getting out of prison, Hannibal hadn’t much permitted himself to think about the future and what it might hold for them, as much self-preservation as curiosity to let things unfold as they would. But suddenly he could see it with frightening clarity, and it was dazzling.

“No,” Hannibal said, and he smiled at Will, full of love. “You did not.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com), and if you enjoy my writing, you might also like [my book.](https://www.amazon.com/Bombora-Mal-Peters-ebook/dp/B0094B310W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1482900125&sr=8-1&keywords=bombora+peters)


End file.
